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An offering of sacred smut & somatic myths
Sacred Smut & Somatic Myths: Threshold
Created by Ro Rose | @queerlyfluid
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A praxis of three: First, entering the cracks you’ve kept sealed (The Ache Takes You); then, letting desire rot through your skin, your moans splitting the walls of old cages (The Rotting of Desire); and finally, returning to your body’s wreckage, not healed but holy, not whole but alive (The Body Remains).
Tender Ruin | Creative Documentation
A wet, unflinching fable for the body that refuses to heal. Breath, pulse, and touch take you into the fissures you’ve tried to seal. Here, grief is no flaw. Hunger is no shame. This is not a fixing. This is staying cracked open.
A high-tempo, full-bodied spell. Here the ache turns to fire, the quiet into a warcry. Pleasure becomes prophecy. You fuck your grief open, let rage ride you like a beast in heat, and blaze as an altar to the audacity of wanting.
The aftermath. The wreckage. The quiet holy. You did not arrive, you did not stay behind. You became. Here you gather yourself—not whole, not healed, but humming with what you survived. A benediction for the cracked-open body.
Come as you are.
Trembling or defiant.
Bring yourself.
Your skin, your breath, your pulse.
That is enough.
And if you wish—
bring candles, mirrors, oils.
A pen for marking your skin.
A fruit to bite into.
Bring your shadows too—
the ones you keep folded away.
You are not here to be “good.”
You are not here to be “healed.”
You are here to meet yourself—
your hunger,
your ache.
Whatever you’ve kept leashed, locked, swallowed.
Bring that.
Bring it here.
This is not a safe text.
It is a wild one.
It trembles with grief, moans with longing, burns with queer eroticism.
It may take you apart—
it will not ask permission.
Stay only if your body says yes. Leave tenderly if it says no.
Your body is the only authority here.
Hush now.
I’ll tell you how it happened.
It was late. The air damp and heavy, pressing down like a second skin.
My seams were splitting that night—skin wet where it shouldn’t be, belly hot and aching, breath caught like a fist in my throat.
I went walking anyway. Barefoot. Dirt cool under my soles.
And that’s when I found you.
Bent low in the moss, cracked down the center. Sap thick and dark at your seams.
You didn’t move. Didn’t close. Not yet.
So I knelt.
I let my fingers drag slow across my own jaw, feeling where rage slept tight in the hinge. My hips ached where grief had coiled, hot and restless.
I spoke low, like a secret:
“You think this is breaking. But it isn’t.
Breaking means something to fix.
This… is staying.”
Listen. I’ll show you how.
Start with the hips.
Dig your fingers into the place where thigh meets pelvis. Press until the grief stirs. Don’t shy from the bruise. The ache is your teacher.
I press my own thumbs deep as I speak, breath catching, hips twitching. My eyes on you as your hands begin to move the same way—hesitant, then certain.
“Now the jaw. Hook two fingers inside. Open it wider. Wider still. Let sound slip out. Let it spill.”
My tongue goes slack. Saliva runs down my chin as my fingers stretch me open. A moan leaks out—low, wet, unpolished.
“Good. Don’t swallow it back. Let the air carry it.”
Now the belly. Slide your hand lower. Press hard. Feel how the heat rises, pooling wet at the seam of you.
I let my fingers slip between my thighs as I speak. I’m wet already. Two fingers circle my clit, slow, reverent, smearing my slick until it shines in the moonlight.
“Go on,” I murmur. “Don’t rush. This isn’t for performance. This isn’t for soothing. This is staying awake in the ache.”
Your hands gather what’s left. The sweat-dried skin. The tender belly where grief and joy still wrestle like lovers unwilling to part. The scarred thighs. The salt-streaked cheeks.
You murmur to them:
“You belong. The tender one. The raging one. The ecstatic one. The desolate one. All of you.”
And now you sway softly—your body still tingling from the ride, from the rot, from the riot. Tears trace your cheeks like sacred oil. You press your lips to your own shoulder as though it were the mouth of a beloved returning from war.
You whisper into your own skin: